He opens his eyes as he steps to her which is, in the end, ridicuously disorienting. They step off the street, out of a world of noise and music and all manner of input for each and every one of the senses into a moment from the long past. Or it feels as though it is. Jaskier swoons a bit as the sensation of rushing--rushing in general really--comes to a dead halt and they continue through to find themselves standing on the other side. He feels like he has missed a step on a staircase, experiences that lurch of gravity, but then it is right before him.

Jaskier blinks hard, fingers tense on hers, and it takes him a moment to realize where they are.

The practice room is silent, the sort of muffled silence that they only ever bother to build into music halls. The windows are just slightly ajar and the air smells still and musty, like very dry old paper left alone for a decade. He stares, in abject shock, but this room has ever been a balm on his soul.

The floor is clear enough to pace a few steps in either direction. The boxes are high enough to serve as seats. Two people talk and laugh indistinctly in the courtyard below. The dust swirls and floats through the streaming midday light and Jaskier is stunned.

"I haven't--" he starts and has no words. It looks almost identical to his recollection. "Was I meant to...think of the inn?"

He cannot bring himself to stop staring around the room, it is too surreal. His shoulders do relax as he looks, though, and the strain of Valdo gradually abates from his expression.